when the cold of winter comes
by Anera527
Summary: Mix of movie!verse and book!verse. In the aftermath of the battle of the five armies, Bilbo struggles to keep himself afloat.


_Then Bilbo turned away, and he went by himself... and he wept until his eyes were red and his voice was hoarse. He was a kindly little soul. Indeed it was long before he had the heart to make a joke again._

The Hobbit, 'The Return Journey'

Bilbo's hands are freezing; Thorin's blood is caked thickly on his palms, stinging the scrapes and abrasions there from the battle. He isn't dressed warmly enough, or so his shaking seems to signify, and his limbs are stiff and aching from the time he'd lain unconscious amidst Ravenhill's ruins. Adrenaline that has kept him moving throughout the battle is deserting him now- he can feel his own trembling, can hear his uneven breaths, and he tries to imagine he is somewhere else.

His imagination has deserted him.

Through what feels like a curtain he is horrifically aware of the blood and carnage and the smell; of the fact that he is sitting in the slushy lifeblood of his friend, and he wishes desperately to be home again. He yearns for the comfort of Bag End and he wants to see the green rolling hills of the Shire and dip his feet in its streams as he breathes in the scents of life.

"Bilbo."

He hears his name distantly but he doesn't respond. He's so tired. What use is glory and war as the Dwarves sing of it if it leads to _this_? What makes the Elven King's reasoning that death over a few jewels is worth anything?

So Thorin told him before his last breath- 'if more people valued home more than gold'; but harshly digging the palms of his hands into his eyes he can only wish angrily, bitterly, that Thorin had realized this even a day before. What will Thorin's legacy be? Bilbo hopes that the songs and tales will be gracious to the Dwarf king but all he feels right now is a hot, vicious anger towards him. The Quest that had promised such adventure and promise has ended in casualties that Bilbo can't wrap his head around, two of whom were young and so alive. One of his hands moves to cover his mouth as a strangled sob escapes his hold.

"Come along now, my dear lad." The voice, gruff and kind all at once, is back again and with it are two large, weathered hands that grab him gently beneath the armpits and haul him to his feet. Coarse grey robes fall about him like a tent, enveloping him with the scent of clean mountain air and pine even through the blood, and he doesn't protest as he's led to a set of broken stairs. "There now, Bilbo, sit yourself down and rest for a moment. Everything will be all right."

The last statement is so ludicrous that he can't form a reply that is both scathing and coherent enough to utter and he simply sits as he is bid. His knees buckle and his landing is rather more jarring than he's prepared for; his breath hisses through clenched teeth as his overtaxed body protests. His vision is temporarily devoid of anything but Gandalf's grey robes as the wizard deftly checks him over for any other injuries than the one on his head, and then the old man is moving away from him, doubtless to check on the remaining members of the Company. Bilbo's gaze is drawn again to Thorin's body now lying several yards away. The others have begun to gather around the body of their fallen king in deference and honor and grief, but Bilbo's tears are spent and all he can do now is watch and tremble and try to stave off the irrational fury that's trying to claw its way up his throat. He wonders again what it is about gold and treasure that makes them worth a war. He will never believe that the answer to the question he had asked of Thorin in the armory (is this really worth your honor?) is yes.

He's too kind-hearted an individual to think that Thorin bought what he paid for with his death, but his anger is enough.

He's still contemplating the pros and cons of his adventure when the wizard sits beside him and the scent of Gandalf's pipeweed lifts him somewhat from his stupor. The wizard's tired visage softens with a gentle smile and an approving nod, and Bilbo surprises himself with somehow finding a half-smile in return.

~/~/~/~/~

The walls of Erebor are cold and looming and oppressive. There's a certain majesty to these halls that can't be hidden or denied even through the filth and stench of dragon, but Bilbo is tired of feeling only cold stone beneath his feet. He longs even more for the green hills and flowers of the Shire. Every day his yearning for home grows, but he can't begin the journey home yet because Thorin and Fili and Kili have not yet been laid to rest. Gandalf guesses his disquiet and in a moment of quiet assures the hobbit that they will depart as soon as Dain Ironfoot is crowned king.

Bilbo takes as many distractions as he can lay his hands on in the following days; he's not expected to help with the clearing of the battlefield of the dead- indeed, he's not entirely sure that he would be able to long stomach seeing war's remnants anyway- and while in the beginning he helps to gather and cast out the fallen rubble of Erebor, very quickly he finds himself in Erebor's rather extensive library.

He strongly suspects that the Company has ganged up on him because he's never without one or two of them dogging his footsteps and finding something for him to do, giving him very little chance to ruminate over what's happened. He's most grateful to Ori, however- the young scribe fondly remembers the numerous books in Bag End and he finds it easy to convince Bilbo to travel with him to the wing that houses Erebor's countless scrolls and tomes.

Bilbo goes in in the early morning and none of the Company sees him again until almost a day later. He's bedraggled and hungry and he's covered in dust and dirt, but there is a smile wider than any of the Company has seen before on his face and his eyes are brighter than they have been since Beorn's gardens. The solitude and the time spent with his favorite past time has done a marvelous job of restoring much of his spirit, and the Dwarves find themselves responding in kind.

When had they all grown so fond of the little fellow? None of them can rightly say but they all smile he brushes the dust from his clothing and declares he is going to bathe and then find something to eat that isn't cram.

Bilbo himself doesn't notice the relieved smiles on the faces of Thorin's Company as Bombur fixes a hasty meal; he plies himself to his food with studious attention and only falters when he overhears Balin mention the funeral preparations that are to take place tomorrow afternoon. He pales very slightly as he turns to the white-haired dwarf. "Is it- ah, strictly necessary for us... all to be there?" he asks softly, his words meant for Balin alone.

Balin's expression is soft and understanding as if he can see Bilbo's insides twisting painfully. "It will be good to say that final goodbye, lad," he says gently. "You'll regret it if you don't, I think. You were appointed the fourteenth member of the Company besides- we would be honored if you would join us once more."

Well, what can he possible say in argument to that? Fortified by his several hours of silence and reading, and his hunger satisfied, Bilbo nods his agreement and tries to ignore how sick he suddenly feels.

~/~/~/~/~

"What ever is the matter, Bilbo?"

Gandalf's quiet inquiry startles him from his thoughts and he looks up from his view of the valley to find that the wizard is standing behind him. The hidden door that had first led the Company into the Lonely Mountain stands open.

This is where the beginning of the nightmare began- when Thorin's greed and want felled him to the Dragon Sickness. And all before he had stepped foot within Erebor. He remembers his sense of relief when Thorin had saved the key from falling and now all he can wonder is whether it would have been better if they had not been able to enter at all.

Hesitantly he poses this question to the wizard, and Gandalf's expression softens further- it's very similar to the look he had given Bilbo when they had sat together on the steps and Bilbo abruptly feels his anger burning hot again. He turns back to the Lonely Mountain's surroundings as Gandalf carefully sits beside him.

"Thorin knew the risks of facing Erebor again, Bilbo. He was not a young Dwarf either, and he was a warrior- he knew what outcome it could bring to he his own."

"But for what?" The question bursts out of him with a ferocity that is startling, and he almost reels back from the force of his own voice. "For a _stone_? What dead, inanimate object could be worth a war that cost hundreds of lives? That accursed Arkenstone cost Thorin his word, his honor, his life, and Fili's and Kili's! Where is the sense in that?'

The wizard is quiet for a long moment. "You forget that a Dwarf's personality, their vitality, lies along different lines than a hobbit's, Bilbo. Yours is a life that celebrates good food, a warm hearth, and all the comforts of home; hobbits rejoice in things that grow, so of course neither the sway of the Dragon Sickness nor the call of the Arkenstone would have no hold over you. But a Dwarf's lot is altogether different from a hobbit's. Theirs is a life of mining and creativity as they partake of the skills that Mahal their Maker has blessed them with. Their ability to discover these jewels and gold and mithril in the earth and work them into things of beauty is unmatched. They rejoice in beauty as you do, but in different ways. It is their curse and burden to bear to be negatively influenced by such things, just as Men are cursed with their love of power, and Elves with a dangerous sense of arrogance in their supremacy."

Bilbo looks up, amused despite himself. "And what disadvantage do hobbits have?"

"I have yet to find one," the wizard chuckles, filling his pipe and lighting it. "Do not be so harsh in judging Thorin's actions. There is much to his life that you know nothing about."

"But you know of them?"

"Some. But I am not here to tell you of his story- as a very old friend of mine has said, no one is told any story but their own."

Bilbo humphs but lets the matter drop. Gandalf has made sense with his words, and although the Dwarven way of life is still baffling and unknowable to him he feels a little of his earlier frustrations start to ebb. He thinks carefully about the wizard's last words and he finds it a startling thought to realize in hindsight that he is in exactly that- a story, a tale to be told to any who will listen. He wonders briefly what it would be like to have that story written down to be read but then he brushes the curiosity aside; it will come back to him several years from now, when he has settled himself back into the comforts of Bag End and he can think of Erebor and his Adventure without pain. It will be after he's made his second sojourn outside of the Shire's borders and come across a company of Elves heading to the Grey Havens. When hearing their stories he will recall Gandalf's words and realize that he is ready to tell his own.

But that is then; this is now. And for now it's still too painful to think of all that has happened, so he accepts Gandalf's offered pipe, inhales the sweet smoke of the pipeweed and tries to think of nothing at all.

~/~/~/~/~

The silent vigil that the Company holds over the bodies of Thorin and his nephews is just as heart-wrenching as Bilbo had feared, and when it comes down to it he is still very much a hobbit. The Dwarves remain dry-eyed, upright, stoic- as if carved from the stone that Mahal fashioned them from- duty and honor-bound to do right by their leader and once-king. The Arkenstone shines with its ethereal light where it rests forever upon Thorin's still chest, and Bilbo stands apart from the slowly-rotating Dwarves, the loose clasp in the chain, and doesn't try to stop the tears as they come.

Tears are not a sign of weakness in a hobbit; they are not a disrespect and the Dwarves know enough about their little burglar that they don't look down upon him for them. They are involved enough with their own grief that they allow his own space and time, and after he has said his silent farewells to each of Durin's sons he joins Gandalf and allows the wizard to put a comforting arm around his shoulders.

"The Shire will be blooming this time of year, will it not?" the wizard asks of him as they make their way from the burial halls. Dain Ironfoot has been crowned king under the mountain and it is time to go home.

Bilbo nods, welcoming the reminders of home. "Everything will be green. There will be so many flowers blooming you won't be able to separate one scent from another." He clears hos throat, hating how thick his voice sounds. "You're welcome to Bag End any time, Gandalf."

The old wizard practically beams, pleased (and secretly relieved) that Bilbo doesn't resent Gandalf's involvement in his journey. "I thank you for a gracious offer, and I hope to take you up on it in the future." He stops in the wide corridor outside of the rooms that Bilbo commandeered as his own and there is honest affection as he looks down and smiles at the hobbit, "You did yourself proudly in your trials, my dear Baggins- I daresay even the Old Took wouldn't have done better."

The high praise coaxes a smile from him. "I... think I'm glad you had me come. Life is worth the heartbreak if only you live it, my mother used to tell me. I never understood what she meant until now." He ducks through the doorway to grab his pack and lifts it over his shoulder. The Road is calling, and his feet are itching to carry him back home- the Tookish wanderlust is silent for now, and it is time for home and hearth.

He has an acorn to plant, after all, and a promise to keep.


End file.
